January 14, 2010

where the cockroaches kiss

by Atti?

struggling to smell the differencebetween the pefume she wears behind her earsas you teethe at her quivering neck,and the stench of the motel where you fuck like strangersbut later call it sex;where you forget whether it's dusk or Dawnand just remember you'd forgot to call her.

her throat opens wideas the moans bleed into traffic horns,police sirens, and mouths as filthy as their childrenspit glass across the mattressfilled with eight naked body bags, and of course you two-squirming as if you knew what you were doing,with his forearm pinning down her greasy hair-

she pretends she likes it roughjust because she thinks he does.

they rock back and forth like infants trying to remember what it was liketo sit in their mothers arms and feel what love really is-without the crooked smiles that forgotthe difference between disgust and lustjust because it's always so painfulthat the corners of her mouth have just learned to liftwith her skirt to make the tears look like his workpaying off, without showing the shadow of a doubt-that is still trying to figure dusk from dawnso it can decide wether or not it's time to make an appearance.

if home is where the heart is-it makes sense they'd be so hollow.

they lock eyes,but only because neither has the keyto what the other is really looking for.they stare so deep that the room blurs; their pupils grow so wide they swallow each other whole-they stare so deep into each other's eyesthat they just look right through to the other side,and feel just as alone as they didthe day those dusty old vintage motel sheetsstarted to collide.

they've been fucking in the same rotten roomfor so long that their standards for the outside tooare gone.

he'd of never known he climaxedif he hadn't fallen out of her broken spiritand into the pages of the biblethat wasn't even placed in room 12's cracked nightstand.it would have served no purposeto the two who'd stoop so low as to continue spendingeachother when knowing all along they wereworthless.

so they smoke the broken roach clips,left in the ashtray from the moment they noticed-neither one of them even smoked.

they'll make it routine and call it adventureas the habit forms and the love becomes indentured-two slaves wondering which is the masteras they both eat the leatherand clentch their teeth reaching up towards the rafters.she used to call for jesusand now she's call for me-she used to call for jesusbut she never believed,it's just what she thought you're supposed to do.

and we'll keep fucking like we're siezing todaywhile tomorrow giggles behind the curtainsand the night masturbates in the room next to ours with his first date.and i'll keep telling this story in third person,and i'm sure she'll do the samebecause we never loved, we lustedbut we never knew the way-we never trusted ourselves to get there,so we stopped at a motel along the way;